


Reminisce

by Miki_chan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Implied Longing, John Watson Thinks Sherlock Holmes is Dead, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 08:03:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7214296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miki_chan/pseuds/Miki_chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For John Watson, time had stopped the moment the fantasy ended. For who was he, without Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reminisce

John Watson did not know how to erase the memory of Sherlock Holmes. Even six feet below the ground, Sherlock Holmes still had a hold on him. His abandoned violin still played his songs. His science equipment still laid untouched, abandoned by Mrs. Hudson's resolve to remove any reminders of her former tenant. Books sat unread on the crowded shelves and table tops, where Sherlock Homes had sat, reminiscing a thought; a crime. His mind, that amazing mind still calculates his every move, his every expression and his every word.

The world outside of 221b Baker Street still moved, untouched by John Watson's personal torment; his ghost. People looked up curiously, innocently, at the dark window. It was a wonder that this building had once housed the comings and goings of such a man.

For John Watson, time had stopped completely the moment the fantasy ended. His fantasy. His short lived life with the fake genius. The Sherlock Holmes.  
Should he mock his name, or cry over it. Anger to purge any softness remaining for that devilish man. Pain to drown in the memory of those eyes. A bottle or two to top it all off. Make him numb.

It made no difference how many fresh flowers were placed at his grave, because they could never cover enough ground to erase the freshly turned soil. They couldn't erase how fresh this hurt.  
Staring blankly, sitting slumped, defeated in his numb, hollow shell was all that John Watson could bear. A shift towards difference, whether light or dark would break him. The shadow of his former self went through the motions and he stayed, barred, behind the wall he had built around his mind. His own prisoner. His own victim. For who was John Watson without Sherlock Holmes?

**Author's Note:**

> I started this ages ago and decided that I liked it as the short, heartbreaking piece of melancholy it was. So I fixed it up and posted it. Hope it didn't hurt your heart too much. :)


End file.
